Solo
by MLaw
Summary: Napoleon must deal with the action he takes after Illya is kidnapped and tortured. Originally posted on section7mfu on Live Journal for the picpic Tuesday challenge. pre-saga warning: angst and some torture.


Warning, some angst and torture.

He woke up his wrists bound, dangling on a hook hanging from the low rafters in a dimly lit stucco hovel, his vision was blurry, and his head pounded from whatever he'd been drugged with. He was only too familiar with the after effects of THRUSH drugs. The air around him was heavy with humidity and was permeated the musty odor of damp straw and palm fronds, no doubt coming from the primitive was a metal table standing nearby, with grisly looking implements all lined up in a row on top of it, and beside it on the dirt floor was a brazier filled with red-hot coals and an iron rod smoldering among them.

This wasn't the first time he'd been in such a precarious position, but at least he had been on assignment when it happened. This time he'd been on a beach relaxing and doing some reading, laying in a lounge chair wearing nothing but a pair of black bathing trunks and soaking up some sun. Sunbathing wasn't his favorite pastime, but the breeze coming off the Pacific ocean made it comfortable.

HIs plans for the afternoon had included some scuba-diving, but apparently that wasn't going to be the case...

He and Napoleon had finished up their mission and were told to take a few days off to relax before returning to New York, a rare offer and both of them gladly took the Old Man up on it.

Napoleon was sitting at the outdoor bar, making time with a beautiful Latino woman. When looking at her the song, "_The Girl from Ipanema"_ came to Illya's mind. His partner was leaning on his elbow, staring longingly into her eyes, and she was returning his gaze. No doubt Napoleon would not be returning that night to the hotel room he shared with his partner.

A pretty blonde in a very small bikini stepped in front of the Russian, blocking his view, saying hello and handing him one of those tropical mixed drinks with a little umbrella in it and a straw. He accepted it strictly as prelude to yet another flirtatious conversation. A lot of women seemed to want to talk to him, why...he had no clue. He was busy reading a book he'd picked up in town, and couldn't understand why they wouldn't just let him continue to do so.

The libation was pleasant, she seemed intelligent enough and was pretty, though her ample breasts were beginning to draw his attention, perhaps he wouldn't be spending the night alone after all... that was the last thing he remembered thinking.

.

Illya heard footsteps coming into the hovel, and craned his neck to catch a glimpse of who it was.

"Ah Señor Kuryakin, you are awake at last."

"Sorry, we have not been introduced...and you are?" Illya stared at the dark-haired, greasy swatch of a man with a black eye-patch, now standing in front of him.

"That is not important, what is of importance to me is that I have you."

"And why pray tell is that so important?" The Russian spoke calmly in spite of the circumstances.

The man never answered him as he picked up a cat-o-nine-tails and spun the dangling agent around, exposing his back.

"I see you have been kissed by the whip before...no matter." He swung his arm back, and lashed out at the Russian. Illya jerked as he arched his back, responding to the leather cutting into his skin; he clenched his jaw, not wanting to make a sound to give the man any satisfaction. He began to perspire as he fought against the pain.

After enduring the whipping, Kuryakin was barely conscious, but he was abruptly returned to awareness as the tip of a knife jabbed him in the hip. His bathing trunks were being sliced away, little by little, until he was completely naked.

"What is it you want of me?" He managed to say with a strained voice.

"Nothing."

Illya's face contorted with confusion and his eyes widened as the hot iron poker was withdrawn from the brazier, as it came towards his face, he felt the intense heat of the glowing metal and saw the wisps of smoke curling in the air from his gasping breaths. It was slowly touched to his already raw back and he screamed this time and again, as it was pressed to his buttocks, and run along the back of his legs to his feet.

His torturer brought the poker again towards the Russian's backside, and Illya knew exactly what was going to be done to him as the man oozed the words to him.

"Shame you can't bend over for me..."

Illya drenched in sweat and blood, closed his eyes, steeling himself against what was about to happen. He assumed it would most likely kill him if he were truly impaled, much less burned by the still red-hot poker.

There was a noise outside, pulling the tormentors attention away from him, returning the poker to the hot coals. He ran to the door, and after uttering a curse; he ran back, knocking over the table and his instruments of torture as he fled through a back door.

Illya passed out.

.

Napoleon Solo sat in the small hospital room staring at his partner laying naked beneath a voluminous mosquito net. The room was clean, with everything painted white, and the light curtains fluttered as a hot breeze blew in through the open window.

He gulped down a large mouthful of strong black coffee to keep himself awake. He'd been up the last forty-eight hours desperately searching for his partner, who'd simply vanished from the hotel beach.

One moment he saw Illya talking with a blonde, the next moment, when his attention was drawn from his own lovely companion, the Russian was gone. At first he guessed his parter had gone off with the woman, but that wasn't like him as he preferred to sit with his nose buried in a book, though it still wasn't impossible. The man's libito wasn't dead, and appreciated a pretty girl, and when in the mood, he could be quite the romantic. But when Illya hadn't turned up or answered his communicators after twenty-four hours, Solo become concerned.

Napoleon finally found Illya; his limp body having been brutalized and left hanging in a remote shack in the jungle. He recognized the specialized tools laying scattered about the dirt floor as those belonging to Rodrigo Dos Santos, THRUSH interrogator extraordinaire, and the best at doling out torture to his helpless victims. Solo had felt the hand of Dos Santos himself once, and was lucky enough to live to tell the story. That was how he recognized the grisly collection of instruments he'd used on his parter.

He resisted the urge to chase after Dos Santos, who had no doubt just fled, but getting the Russian medical attention was more important. Solo gently lowered him from the hook, taking his limp body in his arms and out to the jeep, Illya mumbled a few words about Dos Santos but passed out again.

.

A nurse came in the hospital room, lifting the net and applying fresh ointment and bandages to Illya's body, and checked his temperature. She turned looking at Napoleon. "He's running a slight fever Señor Solo, and is fighting off on infection." She proceeded to give the Russian aninjection of ampicillin, as they'd been cautioned he was allergic to penicillin.

She replaced the netting and left quietly.

Napoleon stared at the body of his partner, taking note of the scars on top of scars, all earned, except for these latest. Napoleon could feel the bile building in his gut and rising to his gullet. He lit up a Marlboro, but after a few drags, he let it smolder in the ashtray. He had a bitter taste in his mouth, and it wasn't from the coffee or the cigarette. He was angry.

The words Illya had spoken when rescued spoke about being tortured for nothing. "For nothing..." Napoleon growled under his breath.

It was bad enough to have this sort of thing happen on a mission, but for nothing..._nothing?_" He repeated as that was what was eating at him. Solo rose from the chair, going to Illya's bedside.

"I'll be back partner, I promise," he whispered.

Napoleon took off, heading out into the jungle after he'd armed himself, converting his Special to the modified carbine and taking Illya's pistol with him as well, both weapons loaded with live ammo instead of sleep-darts.

He was going to after Rodrigo Dos Santos with vengeance in his heart. Napoleon Solo knew that wasn't smart to pursue someone while hot-headed, but right now he just didn't care...

He found Dos Santos the next day in a small unprepossessing town ten miles away, and walked up behind the man as he sat at a table in an open air café, drinking a cup of coffee and eating an order of _Arepas con huevo._

Taking him unawares, Napoleon grabbed the man by the back of his shirt, and dragged him into the jeep at gunpoint, he handcuffed him to the door handle. The American hit the gas, sending a stream of dirt and pebbles in the air as the jeep took off toward into the rainforest. Bystanders seemed to take little notice, as kidnapping happened frequently, given that political intrigue and drug dealing that were so prevalent in this part of the world.

Napoleon pulled the jeep to a stop in a clearing nearly two miles away, hidden by the dense jungle foliage that surrounded them and turned to Dos Santos.

"You're going to pay for what you did, you know that?" He sneered.

"And hello again to you Mr. Solo. If you are referring to your friend the Russian, I suppose he was paying for what you did to me," he said pointing to the patch. "I was planning on getting around to you, once I was finished with your partner."

Napoleon refused to let the mans words get to him and said nothing as he climbed out of the jeep. He handcuffed Dos Santos' arms behind his back, and once finished he picked up the carbine, leaning the shoulder rest it on his right hip.

The Thrushman stared at him, waiting...

"Run." That was the only thing Napoleon said, as he pointed with his finger.

Dos Santos took off into the jungle with Napoleon giving him a few minutes head start and after a prolonged chase the breathless prey found himself cornered in a small grotto.

The American stared hard at him as he raised his rifle, preparing to shoot.

"You won't kill me Solo, you're one of the good guys," Dos Santos nagged.

"Yes I am and so was Illya..."

Napoleon gently squeezed the trigger, hitting the man with a single shot right between the eyes, and watched him fall to the ground, thinking the jungle wild life would take care of the body.

He lowered the carbine, his hands beginning to shake as he admitted to himself he'd violated his own principles and killed a man in cold blood, it was revenge...no, murder.

Napoleon Solo had killed before on the field of battle in Korea, and for U.N.C.L.E. but never like this.

He did it for his partner, and to keep this bastard from ever hurting anyone else again. He could live with that, he reasoned, as he climbed back into the jeep and took off, not giving Dos Santos a second thought. This would be his secret to keep and bear, just as Illya had his secrets that he shared with no one.

.

The Russian slowly woke, studying his surroundings before he tried to roll onto his back, but the pain and the memory of what had happened returned to him. He managed to shift his position, seeing Napoleon wasn't there, yet he recalled hearing his partner's voice and the words, thinking he dreamt them at first..."I'll be back."

When Illya spotted the nearby coffee cup and a burned out Marlboro cigarette in an ashtray, he knew he hadn't imagined it. Somehow, Napoleon had found and rescued him. He was sure of that now, and he smiled as he closed his eyes again.

.

A few months had passed and Napoleon Solo found himself doing a little soul-searching as he sat at his desk in the office he shared with his partner. The Russian was seated at his own desk, his glasses slipped down to the end of his nose as he buried it in one the many reports piled on his desk.

"Why are you staring at me?" He asked without looking up at Napoleon.

"Oh...I wasn't staring at you, I was just thinking."

"Could you then think while looking at the filing cabinet perhaps, as I find your gaze unnerving at the moment."

Napoleon smiled, averting his eyes, thinking about the incident in the jungle and what it meant in relation to his sense of idealism. He was still the same as he'd always been, and even idealists, no doubt, had to live with some skeletons in their closets. There were times that he felt shy talking about his sense of morality, because to a lot of people, being an idealist meant you had your head in the clouds, you were impractical and naive.

Anyone who knew him was well aware that wasn't the case. His actions spoke louder than words and he could say with conviction that anything of good that had happened in this world, happened because it was driven by idealism.

He liked to point out as an example when he heard any derogatory remarks putting down the concept, that this country was founded on a set of ideals, set forth in the Constitution by a group of idealists, and he thought what they did was working out pretty good so far. Not bad for a bunch of impractical and naïve men.

Napoleon's personal idealism, however, was grounded solidly in reality, as he knew he wasn't perfect. His mind drift back to that morning in South America when he murdered a man. It was an evil act but he saw it as a lesser one when he rationalized the suffering and pain it would prevent. That reasoning was faulty, as it could be applied to any situation, both good or bad, but what was done, was done.

He saw the sort of things the average person wouldn't get to see everyday, or at all for that matter, and that had hardened his beliefs. There was always someone out there with hope, a vision, and there was always someone lurking in the shadows looking to smash those dreams and do harm to others.

The schemes, the plots, the little skirmishes that took place to stop the wars, the loss of lives...those who put themselves in the line of fire to preserve and protect the peace of the world happened every day, yes people didn't always see all that. It was kept quiet to protect them and keep their sense of peace as intact as possible.

"We won't always win," he muttered to himself, though he and his fellow agents could be counted on to never give up, and never surrender to those who would destroy to rule the world. The despots, dictators, megalomaniacs and their ilk were out there, always waiting and plotting.

He never told Illya what he'd done to Dos Santos, deciding to keep it to himself. It was part of the bigger picture in the end and had been the right thing to do.

Napoleon made a silent vow. "We'll be there, where ever we're needed, we men from U.N.C.L.E. And we'll fight to the bitter end, and die if we have to, to stop them all, " he mused, with a determined smile.

In spite of what he'd done that day in South America he was an idealist, proud of it, and a dangerous one at that...

He stared at his partner again, glad he'd been there to save him.

Illya looked up, "What?"

"Nothing my friend, and everything."


End file.
